


Principal Clause

by WhoopsOK



Series: Damp [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Play, Consensual Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Multi, Possessive Behavior, Punishment, School Uniforms, Squick, Watersports, Wetting, pee drinking, slight gender play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8285276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsOK/pseuds/WhoopsOK
Summary: "Sammy was their Big friendly giant, their caregiver, yes. But Castiel and Dean weren’t always good little boys and Sam wasn’t always kind."
(Sometimes they like it when Sam is a little mean to them.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Slight (mutually) possessive behavior warning for any darlings that need it! If it helps, you can pretend it’s all for the sake of the scene.

Dean had been more surprised by his own inclination towards submissiveness than Sam’s inclination towards dominance.

Because, honestly, Dean was a pretty rough and tumble kind of guy. He couldn’t say he exactly _liked_ hurting people, but he _did_ like fighting. He liked being the bigger guy, being… _masculine._ He was a grease monkey—a woodsy type; Dean was a fucking _hunter._ He went wild when he saw the lust-crazy look in someone’s eyes when they realized he could pick them up and _fuck_ them against a wall, that if he didn’t want them to, they wouldn’t be able to get out from under him. He _liked_ the power of it all.

It’s just that he likes _being_ overpowered more; and Sam makes him feel that way.

The first time they had sex – through the tears and pleas and _absolution_ –Sam put his hand around Dean’s throat and Dean saw stars in more ways than one. A lot of things, not just the romantic ones, clicked that night. Dean liked being in his place and Sam knew how to put him there.

Dean hadn’t even _told_ Sam about the panties thing, there was just something about Dean, something about the bond between them that let Sam _know_. The first pair Sam made him put on were smooth and satiny and Sam’s palm stung against Dean’s ass like they weren’t even there. Sam hadn’t had to ask if he liked that, Dean had come against Sam’s leg, crying like a bitch and begging for more.

Sam always talked about how easy it was to control them when they were gooey messes, sloppy with pain or pleasure. He liked breaking them open and touching the soft spots inside, he liked that they _allowed_ him to take that from them. Sometimes said taking was gentler than others.

_Sammy_ was their Big friendly giant, their caregiver, yes.

But Castiel and Dean weren’t always good little boys and Sam wasn’t always kind.

Even though they’d just finished a cased and went to bed dog tired, Dean wakes up instantly when the door to his room opens. He registers Sam’s presence almost subconsciously, but alarms still go off when his brother stalks over to the bed. “Sam?”

“On your feet,” Sam says in the tone of voice that says there will be consequences for resistance.

Dean’s mind blanks out as he obeys. He takes the package Sam shoves at him.

“Put this on—no words, put it on. Do not go to the bathroom when you’re done,” Sam orders and Dean goes hot all over, even as Sam just looks down at him blandly. “When you’re dressed, wait in the hall for Cassie and then come to the kitchen, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean answers automatically. He’s already getting hard in his boxers. Sam spares one quick glance downward that says all Dean needs to know – if he touches himself, _he’s gonna have a real bad time._

Sam walks out without another word and Dean can just vaguely hear Castiel getting the same spiel as he rips open the packages. He sucks in an unsteady breath when he sees the plaid skirt that would hardly reach mid-thigh laying on top of the rest of a school girl ensemble – stockings and a panty-bra set, to boot.

Dean stands there trembling for a moment, his dick giving a wanting lurch just at the sight. His mouth is running a little dry by the time he gets his pajamas off and steps into the panties, watching his own hands as they settle the pink ruffles around his dick. He knows better than to let the touch get too self-indulgent, quickly pulling up his knee high stockings before he clasps on the bra. He doesn’t let himself think about how easily he does this now, how familiar he feels as the elastic of the bra squeezes around his chest. He swallows and pulls up his skirt.

As he buttons up his shirt, he avoids looking at himself in the mirror. His breath is already coming out a little shallow and he feels like everything is too tight. He’s embarrassed, regularly, but how easily he gets turned on just from looking at _himself,_ but if he looks in the mirror—gets a good look at the way he can see the outline of his bra through his thin, white shirt, he’ll be too tempted to go for his nipples. He puts on his bowtie without looking before heading into the hallway.

Castiel is already there, blushed and standing ram-rod straight against the wall, when Dean opens the door. Dean can’t help the way his eyes dart down to Castiel’s muscular thighs any more than he can help the way his dick throbs at the sight.

Castiel’s hands fist into the end of his skirt, partly out of embarrassment at the length, partly like he’s physically holding himself back from reaching for Dean. “He said no touching,” he mumbled, eyes wide and throat bobbing as he swallows.

“He _implied_ I shouldn’t touch _myself_ ,” Dean whispered back, but could already feel the burn of Sam’s palm across his cheek for getting smart. “Just a little,” he promises and reaches for the collar of Castiel’s shirt. He goes hot all over at the way Castiel flinches at the touch, shutting his eyes as his breath shudders out. “Just a lil’…”

“Dean…”

Dean’s hand travels down from Castiel’s throat to his chest, feeling along the outline of his bra before jumping across to his nipple. “You look so pretty…”

“ _Boys!!_ ” Sam shouts suddenly, causing them to both jump away from each other. “ _There are not that many pieces to those uniforms!_ ”

Flushed and a little guilty, they share a look before heading quickly down the hallway.

Sam is leaned against the counter with a cup of coffee raised to his mouth. The white button down and creased slacks he is wearing already had Dean fucked up, but the glasses and the knowing look behind them _ended_ him. They were in for it today.

“Drink up,” Sam says, pouring up two half glasses of cranberry juice, sliding them across the counter. “We need to eat breakfast before we start.”

Dean’s mouth abruptly feels desert dry, but he also feels the throb in his abdomen at the idea of having to take any liquid down without having been to the bathroom this morning. Even so, the hard look on Sam’s face and the excitement in his own chest have him reaching for the glass without complaint. He sees Castiel do the same.

Breakfast is quick and mostly quiet. Sam has the radio playing softly in the background, but doesn’t really look up from his morning paper, leaving them to stew in anticipation. They’re so nervous they can hardly pay attention to what they’re eating.

Dean gets so stuck in his head trying to figure out what Sam has planned that he doesn’t even realize they’re all done until Sam _appears_ in front of him, grabbing him by the chin. “You there, Winchester?”

He blinks dazedly. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Sam says, “Class is about to start.”

They follow him obediently out to the main room where he points for them to sit at the table. Once they’re seated, Sam walks behind them and starts messing around with some things. They can hear the rustle of paper and the clinking of glasses, but can’t quite put together what he’s doing. Both of them, however, are too well trained to turn around and look, or even to ask. They fidget minutely – from both nerves and their full bladders.

Sam will tell them when they need to know.

Eventually, Sam comes back into view with a tray holding a pitcher of water, two glasses, two legal pads, and two pencils. He places one of each before his boys, filling up their glasses with water before standing upright.

“I think I may not have been clear enough about some things,” he says slowly in the deceptively light voice he uses when he’s annoyed.

“Sir?” Dean and Castiel say as one, trained, as Sam walks around the table to pace behind them.

“I don’t try to control you or coddle you too much outside of little space, right?” he asks slowly. “I try to be very explicit about the line between being your Big and being your hunting partner, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” they both answer instantly.

It’s impossible to shut it _all the way_ off (Sam is always going to be a control freak), but keeping it shelved is not hard to do. They’ve been walking lines for as long as they’ve known each other, for as long as they’ve _lived_ maybe. Sam is good at keeping himself in check when they’re on hunts. Dean and Castiel aren’t too shabby either.

Dean can’t guess where this is going and – since they haven’t been given permission to turn around – can’t judge by Sam’s face.

“But that doesn’t mean I ever _stop_ being your Big, right?” Sam asks in a singsong voice. “Even when I’m not there, even when someone else _is there_ you’re still my littles, right?”

“Yes, sir,” they repeat again, but this time Dean sees a bit of color flash into Castiel’s cheeks. His skin prickles with what that could mean, but before he can shoot Castiel a questioning look, a yardstick slowly makes its way down Castiel’s back.

“You look a little flushed, there, Winchester,” Sam says.

It _destroys_ Castiel whenever Sam calls him by their last name, even more so when it’s in that low, dark tone that means they’re about to learn a lesson the hard way. He shivers as the wood catches on the fabric of his shirt, jumping across his bra strap. Dean can see the flush creeping down his throat.

“Sir,” Castiel agrees in an unsteady voice.

“Do you want to share with the class _why_?” Sam asks, but when Castiel opens his mouth, continues. “Maybe you feel a little ashamed of how you let that man talk to you yesterday?”

Dean feels his stomach drop a little. He knows Castiel would _never_ take on another Dom, wouldn’t even consider it. But whatever has happened has smashed Sam’s “Mean” button and that freaks Dean out a little.

“Sir, please…” Castiel begins, but Sam grabs a fist full of his hair, shushing him directly against his ear.

“I heard what he said, Cassie,” he stage whispers so Dean can hear. “Your butt dialing is normally cute, but I gotta say—listening to you _listen_ to someone else tell you how they’d pink your ass and make you into a good boy did _not_ make me happy,” his fist tightens and Castiel whimpers. “But do you know what _really_ set me off?”

“ _Sir_ ,” Castiel chokes out. He’s tenting through his skirt even as tears start to brim in his eyes.

“When you said…” Sam begins and his eyes slide over to Dean. Dean goes completely taut when Sam rests the end of the yardstick on Dean’s chest. “You would consider it,” he says, eyes almost vacant, “In that precious, _little_ voice, you said you might just hold him to that if he gave you the information you wanted.”

Dean knows that trick, has played that trick dozens of times before. He has an app on his phone specifically so he can give out a fake number that’ll work for the moment if that’s what they want. He knows how to play into the drunk and horny for the sake of a case. He shouldn’t be surprised that Castiel does, too. He’s a Winchester.

Though, there’s something different about imagining another man whispering “ _good boy”_ that makes his skin crawl with itchy violence. Not at Castiel, but at the man who so much as breathed those words at him. He thinks it’s because it feels too different than regular, empty flirting, but he also knows it doesn’t really matter. Castiel never would’ve actually gone anywhere with that guy. And, honestly, Dean probably would’ve done the same, and there’s the hitch; that’s the fire in Sam’s eyes.

 In Sam’s book, Dean is just as knee-deep in it as Castiel is.

“It seems,” Sam muses, a tic crossing his jaw, “that the elder Winchester girl has got it in her head to be a bad influence on you.”

“Sir—” Dean tries to protest, but it cuts off in a grunt when the yardstick abruptly drags down his nipple.

“I understand flirting for intel,” Sam says tightly, “I can even understand _touching,_ but _my_ boys are not going to even _play_ at being little for _anyone_ else.” He’s breathing a little hard, struggling to keep from shouting, as near to out of control as Sam ever really gets when they aren’t fully adults. Dean can visibly see Castiel’s heart breaking, he can feel it himself. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir,” they answer instantly, Castiel shivering, remorse bright on his face. They do. Dean is a natural flirt, but he will never, ever cross that line if it hurts Sam this way. His littleness belongs to his brothers alone.

Sam puts the yardstick down and comes to lean between them, his hands warm and heavy on the backs of their necks. His voice is a little unsteady, “Whose littles are you?”

“Yours, Sir,” they answer, and it feels like a mantra, a prayer.

“Who do your little bodies belong to?”

“You, Sir.”

The hands on the backs of their necks turn gentle for a moment, caressing. “Always?”

Dean’s throat is tight. “Always, Sir,” he says as Castiel gasps out “Always, Sammy.”

Sam doesn’t correct him, instead looking down at him with thinly veiled adoration. He loves them, he loves them so much and even when he’s angry, they know it. Castiel can’t hold back his tears. Sam silently wipes his cheeks before standing upright.

“Good girls,” Sam says, crossing back to the other side of the table. “Let’s write it down so we don’t forget, hm? Two pages front and back. _My little body belongs to my Big Sammy._ ” He pours them too more glasses of water, eyes slowly making their way from ‘pained’ to ‘being a ~~little~~ big shit’. “Take a sip after every line. You will not pee until you’re both done.”

Dean flushes hot at that, trying to assess if he can even make it that long, but Sam raises a hand at Dean’s face. “No speaking, Dee, just get it done,” he says, just a hint of a smirk in his eyes, “ _My little body belongs to my Big Sammy._ ”

Castiel picks up his pencil immediately and Dean can see his leg shaking. He must have to go pretty badly, too. They write for several, agonizing minutes, their waters slowly dwindling as they do. Dean is almost all the way down his first page when Sam stands, grabbing the empty pitcher.

“I want you silent and writing,” he says, giving them each a warning look, before he leaves.

Dean waits until he hears the pipes creak with running water, before turning to Castiel.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Castiel mouths instantly.

Dean frowns. “ _Don’t ‘don’t’ me! You got us in this mess!_ ”

“We _wouldn’t_ both _be in this mess if_ we _weren’t_ both _responsible!_ ”

“ _I didn’t tell you to—_ ”

“ _Dean, shut up and write, I’m gonna wet myself…_ ” Castiel says and Dean’s brain grinds to a halt. He can’t tell if Castiel means for that to be arousing or not, but now his gut is twisting. _Fuck_ , he’s got to pee so bad, but maybe… maybe if he writes slowly enough, he can outlast Castiel and…

Castiel catches the look on his face and flushes abruptly. “ _Don’t you dare._ ”

Dean clears his throat, shifting minutely. “ _Fine! My ass is going numb, anyway_.”

“ _Then hurry up and finish!_ ”

When Sam coughs behind them Castiel goes pale, but spares the time to shoot Dean a dirty look. And not the good kind of dirty either.

“How many words was that, D.W.?” Sam asks just to be mean, stepping up close behind them to fill their glasses. “‘ _Fine, my ass is going numb, anyway’_?” When Dean doesn’t answer Sam clunks the pitcher of water down heavily. “I asked you a question.”

“Seven words, sir,” Dean answers then blanches when Sam picks up the yardstick. There’s _no_ way, there’s _no…_

“Let’s make it an even ten,” Sam decides. “On your feet, braced on the chair.”

Dean obeys shakily, hands going white knuckled around the top of the chair.

“You know the drill,” Sam says and then there’s the _whoosh_ of the yardstick before it lands against Dean’s ass. The sound registers before the pain, but then—oh yep, hey, _that hurt a lot._

“One, sir, may I have another?” He says and Sam gives it to him. He counts out loud just fine, wincing and shifting and _clenching_ , but—“ _Ah!”_ he exclaims on seven as a spurt of piss escapes into his panties. For a stunned moment, he can’t speak, a chorus of _no, no, no, not yet_ stealing all his thoughts away as he clenches down against the flood. He’s panting with the effort.

“That didn’t sound like a number,” Sam observes.

Gritting his teeth, Dean takes a breath and braces himself. “Seven, sir, may I have another?” He hates how much his voice shakes.

Sam finishes quickly – harshly – and Dean is tensed over the chair, feeling drunk, like if he lets go he’s going to fall, fall _apart_ , wet more than just the front of his panties.

Sam sets the yardstick back on the table. “Did you wet yourself?” he asks, and Dean’s stomach flips.

“N—” he starts to say, but thinks better of lying. “J-just a little, sir.” He yelps when Sam grabs his crotch to check, pained and feeling that tight tickling in his stomach that said he was at the brink, “ _Sir, sir, please—!_ ” he gasps and Sam turns him lose.

“Is your ass still numb?”

Dean lowers his eyes to the floor on instinct. “No, sir.”

“Good, then have a seat,” Sam says and as Dean does, shifting uncomfortably against the damp fabric rubbing his dick, Sam turns to Castiel. “Cassie.”

“Sir?”

“Braced against the chair,” he says and Castiel complies. “Ten, count them out.” He arcs back before he even finishes the sentence.

Castiel gasps, biting his lip. “One, sir, may I please have another?”

By six, Castiel has started to cry and at eight, he does not count off immediately, choking. Dean turns to him, ignoring is lines in concern.

Sam has the yardstick down by his side. “Color,” he demands firmly.

“I—” Castiel’s voice is a wobbling mess, “I-I don’t think I can hold it, sir. _Ahh!_ ” he winces forward, one hand disobediently jerking down to clench around his own dick, when Sam grabs his ass.

“I asked you for a _color_ , Winchester,” he says, but doesn’t rush when Castiel has to take several deep breaths before he can answer. He returns his hand to the top of the chair.

“Green, sir.”

Sam finishes his swats quickly, too.

“Have a seat,” he says.

Castiel snivels and sits down gingerly, still jiggling his knee.

“Finish your waters,” Sam says, taking a sip of his own.

“Yes, sir.” They do and it hurts instantly, as if the water bypasses their stomachs and heads directly to their bladders.

Dean has got to take a leak so bad it feels like his _eyeballs_ are about to start floating. He’s getting a little frantic, words blurring into near-cursive as he starts writing faster, but abruptly the yardstick slaps down by his hand. He jumps and clenches his knees together, looking up at Sam in shock.

“Am I going to be able to read that, Dean?” Sam asks blandly.

Dean looks down and sees a mess. He swallows. He slows down.

And he’s _almost_ there, he’s _just_ thinking he’s going to make it, when a fresh spurt startles him so badly he cries out and leaps from the table. He startles _Castiel_ so badly that he can’t hold back a surprised noise, hands clenching in his lap, _leaking, too, fuck, fuck._ Dean’s chair clatters to the ground and he stands, knees pressed together holding himself through his skirt.

“I—”

He can’t do this. It’s too late, it’s _too late,_ no amount of clenching is going to save him now. He can feel the piss burning, _swelling_ right at the end of his urethra. _He can’t do this._

“Have a seat, Dean,” Sam says as if he doesn’t know, can’t see the horror and shame and _arousal_ written all over Dean’s face. Like Dean can’t see the arousal and power in Sam’s.

“ _I can’t, I can’t,_ ” he babbles quickly, “I’ll— _ngh, no, please!_ ” His face crumbles and he clenches his legs tighter together, looking down at the dark spot blooming around his hands. “ _Shi—shoot, no!_ ”

“ _Dee_. _Winchester._ ” Sam says as Dean sinks to the floor with a moan, face going slack with relief and flushed with shame as he pisses over his own legs and stockings, a puddle slowly spreading beneath him.

The feeling turns Dean on so quickly, his dick doesn’t know what to do, still spurting piss between his fingers even as it tries to get hard.

Sam stalks over, looming over him. “I know you did _not_ just piss on my floor!”

Dean can hardly breathe enough to speak. “I’m sorry, sir, I couldn’t— _nn!!_ ” he presses his lips together when Sam grabs him by the hair, pulling him until he’s nearly up on his knees, head wrenched back, legs dribbling with his own piss.

_Fuck_ , this is bad – _he loves this, he’s gonna jerk off to this for months_ – this is _so_ bad.

“Cassie,” Sam says without looking away from Dean, who feels like he’s burning up inside; he feels blurred, like the only part of him that’s awake is his dick in his hands and Sam’s fist in his hair _._ “Stand up.”

Castiel hesitates for an uncertain moment, shivering and still clutching himself. “Please…” he begs.

Sam snaps his fingers. “On your _feet_ , Winchester.”

Castiel flushes, standing quickly, but Dean can tell his knees are a little weak.

“How many lines do you have left?”

“Just three, sir.” Castiel says, eyes bright with tears. “Please, sir, I can—”

“That’s enough,” Sam answers easily. Before Castiel can ask what that means, Sam is slipping the fingers of his free hand into Dean’s mouth, prying it open. Dean, brain still fuzzed on the _best piss of his entire life_ , is slow to catch on as to why Castiel’s eyes go wide until Sam says, “You can pee now.”

Dean’s ears start roaring, his heart nearly jumps out of his throat. His moan is loud and croaking, unable to hold it back even a little with Sam’s fingers on his tongue.

“ _Sir_ ,” Castiel chokes out, breathless, even as his eyes lock on the spacy look on Dean’s face. He’s got tears rolling down his cheeks and he looks so awed and turned on Dean starts to shake.

“ _Please,_ ” he says, though he’s been ordered not to speak, though it comes out a garbled mess around Sam’s fingers.

Sam doesn’t even look at him, “Come on, before you make a mess of yourself, too.”

On cue, Castiel flinches as a particularly painful cramp sends piss gushing against the front of his panties. Fumbling with shaking hands, he lifts up his skirt and pulls his panties to the side and aims his dribbling dick at Dean’s mouth with a harsh groan.

When Castiel’s piss floods his mouth, Dean’s brain goes offline. For a moment, it’s like he’s outside of his own body.

He’s only ever tasted piss off his own fingers, too embarrassed to put in the effort to actually _drink_ any of his own, too embarrassed to ask to drink anyone else’s. But now, the bitter taste of Castiel’s piss is filling up his mouth and his brain and _everything he is_ and he can’t think of anything except being this thing, this base, filthy _thing_. A mouth, a _hole_ just for this purpose. He almost forgets to swallow – isn’t even sure if he was meant to – until piss is dribbling hot and fast down his chin.

He gulps – _Castiel can’t stop pissing now, hits him square in the face until he opens up again_ – a and it warms him all the way down, tingling right along with Castiel’s moan, “ _Dee…_ ”

Sam’s hand flinches tighter, involuntarily, in Dean’s hair and Dean moans, though to his own ears, it sounds far away, doesn’t register as a sound that came from him. When Sam pushes him forward so his mouth is around the head of Castiel’s dick, he doesn’t hesitate to suck the last of his piss out. He doesn’t pull off when the flow stops, just draws Castiel all the way into his mouth like he belongs there.

He doesn’t realize he’s swaying on his knees until his back hits Sam’s legs, standing firm, keeping him upright even as he lets go of his hair. He’s dizzy, he’s so turned on it hurts and all he wants is Castiel’s cum, that’s all he wants. He whimpers – pathetically, he would think, if he could even hear himself – as Castiel ruts into his mouth, close, _so close_.

…Dean is not prepared in the slightest.

When Sam’s piss hits him right on the top of his head, soaking his hair and dripping down to where his lips are wrapped tight around Castiel, he comes without even moving his hands, choking around Castiel’s dick and bucking up against the air. He’s on fucking _Pluto_ , his body tingling and seemingly breaking away from itself; he’s flying, he’s _gone_. He doesn’t care what else they do to him as long as they don’t _stop._

“ _Fuck,_ Dee,” Castiel whimpers and Dean coughs when he comes against the back of his throat, but continues sloppily bobbing his head until Castiel pulls out, collapsing to the floor in front of him. “ _Dee…_ ” he cries, looking caught somewhere between horrified and awestruck, petting Dean’s face with reverence.

Dean can’t hold himself upright any longer. He slumps over onto his hip with a splat that makes his brain spin. He’s shaking so hard his teeth are rattling and it’s not because of the coolness of his piss-damp clothes, his piss-damp _hair_ ; this is coming from somewhere deep and he isn’t sure how to stop it. He doesn’t know why he starts crying there on the floor – he loved that, he _really, really_ loved that – but now the crocodile tears have started. He feels broken open and dirty and Castiel looks like he feels the same. He’s about to start with the waterworks, too.

“What beautiful girls,” Sam drawls, low and loving.

Castiel makes an alarmed sound when Sam goes to his knees. He’s going to get piss on his good pants, he’s going to be dirty like them. But when Sam pulls them in close, heedless of the piss and tears, bracketing them between his arms and kissing their faces, Castiel’s cry turns into a drawn out whine. Like Castiel can’t _breathe_ , like he’d never want to again as long as he could stay with Sam looking at him like he is right now.

“Ok, my sweets,” Sam rumbles gently, “It’s all over now. It’s ok now. You did very, very good.” He kisses them like they aren’t dirty, like he means it, like – _Dean gasps for breath_ – like he doesn’t taste the piss in Dean’s mouth. Like they’re his, his, his, no matter what.

Sam holds them and rocks them, petting them and peppering them with kind words – _my sweet littles, I love you, you’re mine always, I love you, I love you_ – until his knees ache. They shower and clean up and lay together, tangled in each other and tangled in their love for each other.

After they’ve rested, when Castiel looks up without guilt because Sammy forgave him so it must be ok, he rides Sam until his eyes roll back, flyaway hairs plastered to his sweaty forehead.

Later, Dean asks – _begs_ – Sam to mark them up and he does, bites hard and deep and says, _mine, mine, only mine_ , and it’s true because Sammy said it and, see here? It’s marked in their skin, as many times as they ask, it’ll get marked in their skin. _They are Sammy’s and Sammy is theirs._

Much later, when Castiel sees the new card stuffed in his wallet, he completely loses his train of thought. The laminated legal paper – one side with his and Deans’ handwriting, _My little body belongs to my Big Sammy_ , the other with Sam’s neat print _My Big Body belongs to Dee and Cassie_ – makes Castiel lose his breath. When he runs into the bunker to see Dean kneeling over Sam’s lap, frantically kissing him, wallet spilled out on the floor, he doesn’t hesitate to join in.

“Our Sammy,” he mumbles against Sam’s cheek.

Sam chuckles, holding them both by the backs of their necks. “My Cassie, My Dee,” he agrees.

And Sammy’s word is law.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading…if you pee on someone else’s floor, be sure to clean it up!
> 
> (Dear me, all this term paper writing has got me in a mood! But. As a responsible perv, I must give a PSA: romantic relationships with your professors, TAs and the like is a Bad Choice! Don't match with them on oktindgrindfish (until you're _completely_ Out of Their Class)! Alternatively, don't be afraid to ask for help if they make you uncomfortable with their attention!)


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